Dawn broke cold and gray over the capital. Arin stood in the palace courtyard as servants loaded his belongings into a sturdy but unremarkable carriage—nothing like the elaborate coaches his brothers used for travel, but serviceable enough.
The courtyard should have been bustling with well-wishers seeing off a newly appointed baron. Instead, there were only a handful of servants doing their jobs, a few curious onlookers, and the steady drizzle of rain that matched Arin's mood perfectly.
"Your Highness, everything is secured." Gregor appeared at his elbow, somehow managing to look dignified despite the rain. "We can depart when you're ready."
Marcus rode up on a sturdy war horse, his armor practical rather than decorative, a soldier's gear worn by someone who'd actually used it. He had two additional horses in tow—one for baggage, one as a spare.
"Roads east are rough this time of year," Marcus reported. "We'll make better time than a full convoy, but it'll still take us six days if the weather holds. Maybe eight if it doesn't."
Six to eight days. Six to eight days until his new life began in earnest.
Arin took one last look at the palace where he'd spent eighteen miserable years. The towering spires that housed 1.2 million souls in the capital city, the seat of power for a kingdom of fifty million. It had never felt like home, but it had been familiar.
Now even that familiarity was being stripped away.
"Let's go," Arin said, climbing into the carriage. "Nothing left for us here."
The carriage rolled forward, out through the palace gates, past the inner city walls, through the outer districts where the common people lived. Here, at least, people waved—not because they knew who he was, but because a noble's carriage was unusual enough to warrant attention.
Children ran alongside for a few blocks, laughing and calling out, until their parents pulled them back with apologetic bows.
Arin watched the capital fade into the distance behind them. Somewhere in those gilded halls, his brothers were probably having breakfast without giving him a second thought. His mother was likely planning her day's political maneuvering. His father was reviewing military reports from the border provinces.
None of them would miss him.
"Your Highness?" Gregor sat across from him in the carriage, weathered hands folded calmly in his lap. "You should eat something. It's going to be a long day."
Arin accepted the bread and cheese Gregor offered. It was good quality—palace kitchens provided well, even for departing failures. He ate mechanically, tasting nothing.
"Gregor... can I ask you something?"
"Of course, Your Highness."
"Why did you really choose to come with me? And don't give me that speech about loyalty. You've served the royal family for forty-three years. You could have requested a comfortable retirement, or transfer to serve one of my successful brothers. Why waste your final years on a prince going nowhere?"
Gregor was quiet for a long moment, watching the rain streak down the carriage window.
"When you were seven years old," he finally said, "you found a kitchen cat that had been injured by one of the hunting dogs. Do you remember?"
Arin vaguely recalled. "I... think so? There was a cat..."
"You spent three weeks nursing that cat back to health. Fed it by hand, changed its bandages, stayed up late when it was feverish. Your brothers were off winning junior tournaments and impressing tutors. You were in the servants' quarters with a half-dead cat."
"I failed, though. The cat died anyway."
"Yes. But you tried." Gregor met his eyes. "Your Highness, I've watched five of your brothers grow up. All talented, all accomplished, all destined for great things. And all of them would have walked past that injured cat without a second glance."
He leaned forward slightly. "You're not the most talented, that's true. But you're the only one who sees people—really sees them—as more than pieces on a political board. That quality, in a lord governing real people? That's rarer and more valuable than you know."
Arin felt his throat tighten. "180,000 people, Gregor. That's not a wounded cat. I don't know if kindness is enough when people need food, security, hope."
"Kindness is the foundation. Everything else builds from there." Gregor settled back in his seat. "Besides, I'm old. I'd rather spend my final years watching you try to do something meaningful than watching your brothers accomplish great things they were always destined for anyway. Your story is more interesting."
Despite everything, Arin smiled. "No pressure, then."
"Oh, immense pressure. But that's what makes it worth doing."
---
The journey east took them through the kingdom's heart. The first two days, they passed through prosperous territories—vast farms worked by thousands of farmers, towns of 30,000 or 40,000 souls bustling with trade, military outposts where soldiers trained in proper formations.
This was the Kingdom of Eldoria at its finest. Organized, prosperous, secure.
But as they traveled further east, the change became noticeable.
The farms grew smaller and less productive. Towns shrank from 40,000 to 20,000 to 10,000. Military outposts became fewer and more run-down. The people's clothes went from fine wool to patched homespun.
"The eastern territories have always been poorer," Marcus explained on the third day as they stopped at a small town of perhaps 8,000 souls. "Even before the Blight, this was frontier country. Harder life, tougher people, less crown investment."
They stayed that night at a modest inn. The rooms were clean but simple, the food plain but filling. Around them, merchants and travelers talked about trade, weather, the constant struggle of life on the kingdom's edge.
No one recognized Arin as a prince. To them, he was just another young noble traveling with his servants. It was... refreshing, in a way. No expectations, no disappointment, no whispers.
That night, Arin studied Matthias's journal by candlelight. His brother's notes were practical and direct:
*"Taxation theory is useless if you can't collect taxes. Focus on what people can actually pay, not what the law says they should pay. A lord who demands more than people can give ends up with empty coffers and resentful subjects."*
*"Don't trust administrators who've never seen a farm or a forge. The best advisors have dirt under their fingernails."*
*"Every major decision affects real people. Remember that, and you'll make fewer terrible mistakes."*
Simple advice, but more useful than any of the elaborate governance texts Arin had studied at the palace.
On the fourth day, they entered the Blight-touched territories.
The change was shocking.
Fields that should have been green with spring crops were tinged with an unhealthy gray. The soil itself looked sick, and plants grew twisted and sparse. Villages were smaller, people were thinner, hope was visibly scarcer.
They passed through a town of about 15,000 people—relatively large for the region—where a market was in progress. Arin watched from the carriage window as people bartered for basic goods. No coins changed hands; these people were too poor for currency. Everything was trade: eggs for cloth, labor for food, service for service.
An elderly woman noticed the noble carriage and spat on the ground.
"Nobles," she muttered, just loud enough to hear. "Come to see how we suffer, then go home to your warm beds."
Marcus's hand moved toward his sword, but Arin stopped him with a gesture.
"She's not wrong to hate us," Arin said quietly. "How many nobles have passed through here making promises? How many took taxes and gave nothing back?"
"Your Highness, you can't let common folk disrespect—"
"Why not? What has nobility ever done for them?" Arin watched the woman disappear into the crowd. "If I'm going to govern in Ashvale, I need to earn their trust. Can't do that by punishing old women for speaking truth."
Marcus frowned but said nothing.
That night, at another run-down inn, Arin couldn't sleep. The weight of what awaited him in Ashvale pressed down like a physical thing. 180,000 people, most of them poor, many of them desperate, all of them depending on a prince who'd never succeeded at anything.
He stepped outside for air and found Marcus already there, standing watch under the stars.
"Can't sleep either?" the old soldier asked.
"Too much thinking." Arin leaned against the inn's wall. "Marcus... be honest with me. What are my actual chances of making Ashvale work?"
Marcus was quiet for a long moment. "You want honesty?"
"Always."
"Your chances are terrible. Ashvale has been dying for thirty years. The land is partially cursed, the people are poor, and you have almost no resources compared to what's actually needed." He met Arin's eyes. "But terrible chances aren't no chances. I've seen battles that should have been impossible to win. Sometimes the side that should lose doesn't, because they fight harder than anyone expected."
"That's not exactly encouraging."
"I'm not trying to encourage you. I'm being honest like you asked." Marcus pulled out his pipe and lit it, the tobacco's sweet smell mixing with the night air. "You asked your chances. They're terrible. But you're too stubborn to let that stop you, which is the only reason you have any chance at all."
Arin laughed despite himself. "You're a terrible motivational speaker."
"I'm a soldier, not a damn poet. I tell truth." Marcus exhaled smoke toward the stars. "But here's one more truth—I've served a lot of nobles in my career. Most of them saw common people as numbers in a ledger. You see them as people. That alone makes you worth following."
"Even if I fail?"
"Especially if you fail. Failure trying to do right beats success doing wrong."
They stood in comfortable silence, watching the stars, each preparing in their own way for what awaited them.
---
On the sixth day, they crossed into Ashvale territory.
The border wasn't marked with anything official—just a weathered stone marker half-covered with moss. But the change in the land was unmistakable.
The grayish tint to the soil became more pronounced. Fewer farmhouses dotted the landscape, and those that remained looked run-down and desperate. The villages they passed held maybe 3,000 to 5,000 souls each, and the people watched their carriage with hollow, suspicious eyes.
This was Ashvale. 180,000 people scattered across a territory that had once held 850,000 at its peak.
As afternoon faded toward evening, they crested a hill and saw Ashvale City in the valley below.
Arin's heart sank.
The "city" held perhaps 45,000 souls—the largest concentration of population in the territory. It should have been bustling, vibrant, alive.
Instead, entire districts looked abandoned. Buildings stood empty, windows dark, roofs collapsed. The parts that were inhabited showed signs of desperate maintenance—patched walls, improvised repairs, the kind of fixes people made when they couldn't afford proper rebuilding.
And at the city's heart stood Ashvale Manor.
Once, it must have been magnificent. A sprawling estate built to house a lord governing 850,000 people. Grand architecture, sweeping grounds, the symbol of wealth and power.
Now, parts of the roof had collapsed. Windows were broken or boarded up. The grounds were overgrown with weeds. Only the central section looked marginally habitable, and even that was clearly in desperate need of repair.
"Gods above," Marcus breathed. "The reports didn't do it justice."
"That's where we're supposed to live?" Gregor asked, his usual composure cracking slightly.
Arin couldn't speak. He'd known Ashvale was struggling, but seeing it with his own eyes was different. This wasn't just a poor territory—this was a place slowly dying, and he was supposed to somehow save it.
Then, as he stared at the broken manor in the fading light, something happened.
Pain.
Sudden, searing pain lanced through his skull like someone had driven a spike into his brain. Arin gasped, clutching his head, vision going white.
"Your Highness!" Gregor grabbed his arm. "What's wrong?"
"My head... I..." The pain intensified, and then—
Words appeared in his vision. Glowing, ethereal, impossible.
**[SYSTEM INITIALIZATION COMPLETE]**
**[WELCOME, HOST]**
Arin stared at the floating text, convinced he was having a mental breakdown from stress.
**[HOST IDENTIFIED: Arin Eldoria]**
**[AGE: 18]**
**[CULTIVATION: Aura Awakening (Low Stage)]**
**[CURRENT STATUS: Baron of Ashvale]**
**[TERRITORY POPULATION: 183,247 souls]**
**[TERRITORY STATUS: Severe Decline]**
**[DYNASTY SYSTEM ACTIVATED]**
**[Primary Function: Assist Host in building lasting legacy through bloodline, governance, and territorial development]**
**[Initial Assessment: Host's current prospects are extremely poor. Immediate intervention required for survival.]**
"What... what is this?" Arin whispered.
**[Would you like to begin tutorial? Y/N]**
"Your Highness?" Marcus had dismounted and was looking at him with concern. "You're pale. Should we find a healer?"
Arin realized that Marcus and Gregor couldn't see the text. Only he could. This was either a hallucination, some kind of magical artifact activating, or... something else entirely.
"I'm... I'm fine," Arin managed. "Just tired from the journey. Let's continue to the manor."
**[Tutorial can be accessed at any time. First quest generating...]**
**[QUEST ACTIVATED: ARRIVE AT ASHVALE MANOR]**
**[OBJECTIVE: Reach your new home and conduct initial assessment]**
**[REWARD: 50 Dynasty Points, Basic Territory Analysis]**
**[NOTE: This is a tutorial quest and cannot be failed]**
The text faded but didn't disappear entirely—it remained at the edge of his vision, waiting.
The carriage rolled down the hill toward Ashvale City and its broken manor. With each yard they traveled, Arin felt the weight of impossible responsibility settling onto his shoulders.
183,247 people. A dying territory. A mysterious "system" claiming it could help him build a dynasty.
And absolutely no idea what he was doing.
But as they entered the city limits and people stopped to stare at the noble carriage—the first new lord they'd seen in fifteen years—Arin made himself a promise.
He would try.
He had no talent, limited resources, and even less experience. But he had stubbornness, he had Gregor and Marcus, and now—apparently—he had some kind of magical system.
It wasn't much.
But it was more than nothing.
And nothing was exactly what everyone expected from him anyway.
*Alright, Ashvale,* Arin thought. *You're dying, and I'm useless. We're a perfect match.*
*Let's see if we can save each other.*
The carriage rolled toward the manor as the sun set, painting the broken building in shades of orange and gold.
His new life was about to begin.
For better or worse.
---